Unexpected Comfort
by ShinigamiPhoenix
Summary: After Sirius' funeral, Harry thinks about the day his Godfather died. Feeling lonely and sad, he gets comfort and help from an unexpected source. Very light HarryDraco pre-friendship


Notes: This isn't quite a romance pairing, more just not-enemies. It was my first attempt at Harry/Draco and I rather like it. Feedback is always welcome, and so are flames because I like laughing at them. Enjoy and review!

Harry sighed, staring at the old and worn wood of the table. The Great Hall was silent, everyone else was in bed. He was thankful for that, he'd spent the entire day surrounded by people offering their condolences and sharing their own pain with him, that all he wanted now was some time to himself, time to _be _himself.

He found it funny that he could only be himself when he was alone. Everyone around him, his teachers, his friends, his enemies, even people he barely knew, they didn't want to know Harry. They wanted to know Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. They wanted him to be this tall, shining figure of hope and strength, the personification of the Light Side, the destined enemy and killer of He Who Must Not Be Named. He'd been so thankful, all those years ago, to finally have a place to belong, that he hadn't questioned it, hadn't destroyed everyone's expectations, everyone's hopes. He'd played the part, done what they wanted him to do, and everyone had been happy. Everyone, except him. No one had questioned it when his act started to fail, when he let the real Harry show. They just attributed it to fatigue or stress or some other nonsense, and had gone on pretending. His acting got better, and he never let the world see the real him again.

But he was tired now. Tired of the acting, tired of the pretending, tired of the whole fucking world. He wanted someone to see the real him, to see Harry, the boy with the messy hair and messier handwriting. He wanted them to see the boy who had been thrust into a personal war he really didn't want to fight. He wanted them to see the boy who cried himself to sleep at night.

He had no tears now. It seemed ironic, that he cried himself to sleep so many times, but now, on what was supposed to be one of the saddest days of his life, he had no tears. He'd have liked to say that it was because Sirius wouldn't want him to cry, or even that he was just trying to be strong for those around him, but the truth was, he just couldn't cry. He was empty inside, no guilt, no sorrow, no anger, no nothing. And people who are empty, can't cry.

Why?

The question burned in his mind, echoing loudly and drowning out all other thoughts. Why had Sirius died? Why had he been foolish enough to fall for Voldemort's trick? Why was he The Boy Who Lived? Why couldn't he just be himself? Why did he have to keep on fighting? Why did the world keep pining their hopes and dreams on him? Why did he have to carry this awful burden? Why why why why why?

Harry didn't understand anything anymore. He didn't understand just what he was fighting for. Back in the beginning, he'd been fighting for what was good and right, he'd been fighting to protect his friends and family, he'd been fighting because he'd believed. But not anymore. Who defined what was right and wrong? Surely everyone thought they were doing the right thing, so who was actually right?

He did still want his friends to be safe, and if he'd still had a family, he'd have wanted them to be safe too, but… he'd discovered something in the past week. All the fighting only got those people hurt. Got them killed. If he was fighting to protect them, then why did he end up getting them killed? It didn't make sense.

The heavy wooden doors to the Great Hall slowly swung open, and Harry sighed, forcing himself to sit up straight and not look so dejected, defeated, broken… empty. It was probably Hermione, coming to see why he hadn't gone to bed. Or maybe Lupin, who had seen him on that damned Map. Perhaps even Dumbledore, wanting to talk to him about not losing hope, that they would win this war, avenge Sirius' death. It might even be Nearly Headless Nick, coming to talk to him yet again about death and rebirth and ghosts and such. Harry didn't want to hear any of it, yet he forced himself to stay, forced himself to play the role that everyone expected of him.

The person who walked into the Great Hall, however, was the one person who had no expectations of him, the one person who didn't give a shit about his 'destiny', the one person who actually saw him for who he really was-a weary, troubled young boy who had been idolised for something he had no control over.

Draco was scowling and muttering under his breath. He was watching his feet, so it wasn't until he was halfway to the Slytherin table that he actually noticed Harry.

"Oh," he said, glaring at him. "Thought this place would be empty." He turned to leave, but suddenly, Harry didn't want that. He didn't really know why, but he just wanted to _not_ be alone right then. He didn't exactly want to talk and comfort and whatnot, he just wanted… someone else to be there.

"You can… you can stay if you want," he called, and Draco froze. For a moment, he just stayed still, but then he turned and looked at Harry. There was something oddly intense to that look, and Harry found himself with the thought that he was being tested, studied, evaluated. He just looked back, too tired, too empty, to really do much of anything. Draco blinked and looked away, hesitating for a moment before moving to sit at the Slytherin table. It was purely coincidence that he sat roughly where Harry was sitting at the Gryffindor table.

Harry sighed and let himself slump back down, putting his arms on the table and resting his head on them. He really was very tired now. It was in the early hours of the morning and he hadn't slept at all the past two nights. He was running on empty, and knew it, but every time he tried to go to sleep, he couldn't. He just kept seeing Sirius, as he fell backwards, the shock evident on his face… he remembered as the veil had slid forward and hid his body, trapping him, taking him from Harry forever…

He kept thinking that if only he hadn't been so stupid, so reckless, so bloody naïve, then he might still have his godfather, the one person he could call family and really mean it. It was his fault, really, that Sirius was dead. And nothing anyone said was going to change that. No matter what he did from now on, no matter what he accomplished, it would all be tainted. Even if he defeated Voldemort-oh, who was he kidding? He had to kill Voldemort, and there was no point in sugar-coating the fact. Anyway, even if he killed Voldemort, even if he won this stupid bloody war that he really did not want to fight, it wouldn't matter. Sirius would still be dead, and it would still be his fucking fault.

"Your friends are looking for you," Draco said suddenly, his soft voice seeming unnaturally loud in the still silence of the Great Hall. Harry just shrugged one shoulder, not caring if Draco saw the gesture or not. He didn't care if his friends were looking for him, as long as they didn't actually find him then they could search the whole bloody castle for all he cared.

"Why aren't you with them?" Draco asked, and Harry frowned, distantly aware that there was something odd in Draco's voice, something that, if he didn't know better, he would label real curiosity.

"They don't understand," he mumbled, and then immediately wondered why the hell he had said that, and to _Draco _of all people.

"Understand what?"

Perhaps it was because he was so tired. Perhaps it was the strangely soft tones of Draco's voice. Perhaps it was because he couldn't actually see Draco, and could thus pretend that he was talking to himself. Whatever the reason, Harry found himself saying quietly, "That it was… my fault."

"That Black died?"

Silence. A thick, pregnant silence, as if the world had taken a breath, awaiting Harry's response. Minutes passed, and he didn't speak, but then, his voice the barest of whispers, he said, "… Yes."

Harry closed his eyes against the tears that had suddenly appeared. It was the first time he had admitted his guilt out loud, the first time he had told someone that it was his fault, the first time he had confessed his sins. And, strangely, it felt good. His heart, so heavy and black within his chest, became lighter suddenly, some of the weariness faded from his body. It was his fault, he was to blame, and he could admit that now.

He heard Draco moving, heard the scuff of his feet on the floor, but didn't move, didn't turn to look at the blonde, because if he opened his eyes, the tears would fall, and he couldn't let that happen, not now. He couldn't cry, couldn't break down, couldn't shed the tears he so desperately needed to, because if he did… he wouldn't be able to stop.

He heard Draco whisper a word, vaguely aware that it was a spell, but couldn't care, he was too focused on not crying, on holding back the tears. Suddenly his body exploded with pain, as if his heart had been replaced with a burning ball of fire that shot out long tendrils of pain throughout all his limbs. He couldn't think, couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything but feel the incredible pain as it washed through his body. It lasted for only a second, a quick flash of unbearable pain, before it faded, leaving only the stinging memory behind.

He jumped up and whirled around, hand reaching for his own wand, but stopped when he saw that Draco had already put away his wand, and had his hands raised in the universal gesture of 'no weapons'. He frowned, and let himself relax slightly, silently demanding an explanation.

"Your welcome," Draco said quietly, and Harry frowned, half at the words, and half at the way they were spoken-soft, understanding, almost… warm.

"For what?" Harry demanded grumpily.

"Not so close to crying now, are you?"

Harry blinked and realised that he wasn't. That one instant of excruciating pain had cleared his mind, made him more focused, had strengthen his will. The tears which had been threatening to overwhelm him were now manageable, held at bay by his fierce resolve.

"Why?" he asked, his voice as soft as Draco's. "Why help me?"

"Because you needed it, and no one else could see it."

"I don't understand. You hate me."

"No, I don't. I hate everything that you represent. You personally, I could actually see myself liking. Even if you are a Gryffindork." Draco smiled, that smug, cocky little smirk he always had, and sauntered casually out of the Great Hall.

Harry watched him leave and just stood there for a minute, thinking. what he thought about, he couldn't really say, because it was one of those moments when your brain processes everything that has happened and it does it so fast that you can't keep up. Whatever he thought, it helped, and he decided to go upstairs and go to bed.

Maybe now he could sleep.


End file.
